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Kathy's Gelded Bitch by Michael Huntington

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Copyrighted © 2002, all rights reserved.  

“This is confession time, Michelle,” Mistress Monique, a French national who I had just seen for the first time, spoke in her sexy accent. “I am your Mistress Monique. I am going to flog you, Michelle, several times, so that you know what I will do to you if you lie. During our interrogation, you will confess everything to your Mistresses.” Never laboring for words, she spoke with the most fluent, professional tone I had ever heard from a Mistress. Obviously, she was thoroughly practiced. As promised, she flogged me hard three times with a flogging whip. It stung crisply on my back, and I thanked her to my captors’ calm expectations.

“Her safe word is ‘mercy’.” Mistress Monica told her. “But so far she has not used it.”

“We will dispense with the safe word,” Mistress Monique cracked back at her. “This is a special session; not the time for the safe word.” I had never heard of a Mistress ignoring the safe word. I felt sweat bead over my nude body. To this point, my penis remained shriveled with apprehension, almost drawn up against my body.   

“Tell me, Michelle, why do you want to become a slave?” she asked straight away.

 “For...for...many reasons, Mistress,” I stammered. “I love to serve powerful women. I am a subservient follower of perfect women, not a leader. I love to be naked and wear women’s clothes to entertain women. My life is not adding up to anything, and I need heavy discipline and constant direction.”

“Maybe so.” She paused. “Michelle, you have had several useless bartender jobs,” she remarked finally. “You have little college completed and few skills, no? You are cute, yet are a loser and a bore. Tell me, slave, what good are you to a Mistress? I see that you like to serve women food and drinks, but all slaves do. All slaves enjoy cleaning toilets and folding laundry as well. What if I need my dresses altered or an antique carefully restored? Can you juggle oranges, dance, or do tricks?  You don’t seem to have any skills.”

“I am ashamed that I do not have any skills, Mistress, but I am eager to work hard and learn.”

“Being a house slave is a total investment of time and energy. It is a great commitment, slave Michelle,” Mistress Monique informed. “I see from your confession that you are an orphan and that you have few friends. This is good in a sense. You be free from the annoyance of guilt-spreading meddlers who could never understand the beauty of our world.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I acknowledged, “I want to be a naked house slave and a sissy maid. I do not doubt my decision.” My body sweat irritated the whipped areas of my skin causing unabated stinging. The excruciating pain from the nipple clips and the pulling weight of their connecting heavy chain caused me to wince and moan, “Ooooooohhh, Aaaaaaaahhh,” every few minutes   

Monique continued questioning. “I see, slave Michelle, that you have had an anxiety attack during school and that you took Valium for several months. You met with a psychiatrist as well. This is laughable. You had an anxiety attack from the stress of pursuing a two-year business degree at a community college? Bullshit. You are either lying or you are a very weak girl.”

“I am weak and timid, Mistress Monique,” I confessed immediately. Mistress Kendra was right. The Mistresses were not interested in clever excuses, and, in light of the pain and the threat thereof, I didn’t want to be disagreeable and break the flow of the obviously leading questions. “I will learn to sew your clothes, Mistress Monique.”

“You say you have taken alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine. You say you have called in sick many times and laid like a pig on the coach eating junk food and masturbating to television.  I do not permit slaves to use drugs or alcohol. I do not tolerate lazy, self-indulgent slaves. If I catch you using, I will whip you naked in the town square. You will be hand-cuffed naked to the pillars of City Hall, and news-hungry women television reporters will find you.”

“Yes, Mistress Monique, I will not disobey a Mistress!”   

“Let’s cut to the chase, Mistress Monique,” Mistress Kendra interrupted impatiently. “Are you a fucking reporter?” She bellowed out the direct question.

“No, Mistress!” my quick reply.

“Well, I can’t see someone who has had only three other sessions on the outside wants to be our house slave all of a sudden,” the blunt-speaking black woman criticized sharply and effectively.  “I called your last Mistress, and she said you were fucking green, inattentive, selfish, cheap, and a damn pussy! She said you did not show up when she showed off her full stable at a club. A slave fucking nervous and afraid of the world finding out, as you are my pet, is not a house slave.”

“You women are so beautiful. I want to be with you every day, no matter what it takes. I want to be in a close relationship with my Mistresses,” I blubbered selfishly, yet honestly. Big mistake.

Mistress Kendra now wielded the whip against my defenseless body. “You ain’t gonna get close to shit!” she spat. “You are a cocky, annoying little slave, aren’t you?! You are nothing to anyone of us, bitch! You are here to obey, serve, and enjoy your suffering;  not to date beautiful women. You are not at the Playboy Mansion. Just hope I let you come!”

The continuous whipping pushed my tolerance. “Mercy, please, mercy Mistress!”               

“Stop it! She is my slave!” Mistress Monica cursed at her, and the sound whipping stopped momentarily. “Let me try some other way. O.K.?”

“I ain’t fucking convinced at all,” Mistress Kendra huffed. 

“Michelle, has a wimp like you sucked a Master’s cock or taken a Master’s cock up the ass?” Mistress Monica interjected out of nowhere. “The confession does not say so.”

“No, Mistress,” I answered.

Mistress Monica grabbed the flogger from Kendra and struck my disobedient ass three times. “Bullshit!” she cursed.

“Aaaaaahhhhh! Aaaaaaaah!” I cried. “Yes, Mistress. When I was 14 years old, I experimented.” A dark secret came out. The disorientation of being blindfolded and inverted played with my mind. I felt especially vulnerable and loose-lipped.

“You never lie to me!” Mistress Monica yelled. “You have embarrassed me in front of other Mistresses! Do you think we are fools? You are facing three powerful cunts, who know what you think before you think it. This is a professional scene!  This is no ‘play’ bullshit, and I’m sorry, Mistress Kendra, with a small-time hooker Mistress on the outside that don’t know shit about shit.” She grabbed my hair and yanked my head back as before. “I also know you fantasize about being taken by a man. Tell the whole truth to your Mistresses -the whole truth to the camera, now!”

“Yes, Mistress!” I cried. The full, immediate truth seemed my only means of redemption. “I...I...lied to you. I...I...fantasize that I wait at the door naked on my hands and knees. I am to be naked all day. My male Master comes home, and I suck his cock. Then the breadwinner tosses me my tiny maid’s dress out of the dirty hamper. I put it on for him. He pulls me over his knees, rips up the skirt, and paddles my ass because the house isn’t clean. He rubs my ass between paddle strokes. After I make him dinner and do the dishes red-assed, he ties my wrists to the bedposts and then lashes my ankles to my wrists until I am helpless. Then he fucks my up the ass with his large cock, while I yell that I am his slave. As I am fucked, I smell my dime store women’s perfume. The long, curly hair of my cheap wig spills down and tickles my chest and shoulders. I taste my red lipstick. I realize my face is coated with caked make-up, and my eyes lashes are thick with black mascara. My toenails have trashy red paint, and my long, carefully filed fingernails relegate my hands to softer tasks.”

There was silence, so I gave them more. “The sexy hot women in the apartment building hear me cry out like a whore through the thin walls. They smile and blow me kisses at me with their pouty big lips the next morning. They walk down the driveway to their Mercedes dressed in their high heels and business suits. Their round asses stretch short skirts. Their long, shimmering hair drapes over their padded shoulders, big tits and cleavage. One of the neighbor women brings me over a wrapped package tied with a pink bow at lunch. It is a gift from her and the other successful, vivacious neighbor women. I stand embarrassed and red-faced at the door in my housedress.  I open it in front of her. It is a frilly French maid’s outfit, white silk panties, and large dildo. She teases me. She invites me to dress up and parade for them in her home. She wants to photograph me.”             

My cock was rock hard.

“Much, much better, slave,” Mistress Monica responded. I could feel her lightly caress my ass, testicles, and penis. “All my male slaves are bisexual, or I transform them against their weak will. As a special treat, I will film you actively fulfilling your little fantasy for my video library...and I will also sell the tape on the Internet.” She spoke with patronizing, over enthusiasm, as if she were giving a kid a relished present. “What do you think of that, slave?”